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Kendrick’s heart leaped and his own eyes became strangely dim. 
With a great laugh he climbed over the net, grabbed the 
boy around the shoulders and hugged him 



THE 


GOOD LOSER 


BY 

E. Richard Schayer 


© 


PHILADELPHIA 

David McKay, Publisher 

604-8 S. Washington Square 



Copyright, 1917, by David McKay 



FEB 1 9 1917 


©Cl. A 4 5 7 1 2 2 

"H* I . 


THE GOOD LOSER 


CHAPTER I 

Bam! — pop — Ping! .... Bam ! — 
pop — Ping! ” 

Over and over again the tennis 
ball, brown and frayed with usage, 
thudded against the side of the 
barn, rebounded to the ground and 
rose to meet the meshes of the boy’s 
racquet fairly in the center. The 
racquet looked far too large and 
heavy for his slender brown wrist; 
his fingers stretched barely half-way 
around the thick handle, but the 
strokes were free, full, precisely 
timed. 

“Ninety-seven — ninety-eight — 
ninety-nine — hundred ! — hundred’- 

n’one — hundred' n two — ” 

[i] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


The boy had not heard the auto- 
mobile pull up at the gate nor was 
he aware of a stranger who stood 
watching him a few yards behind. 

“Hundred’n’three — hundred’n’- 
four — hundred’n’ five!' ’ 

The ball hit some little protuber- 
ance in the barn wall and bounded 
over the boy’s head. He jumped, 
swinging the racquet desperately, 
but missed the shot. Turning, he 
saw the man catch the ball deftly in 
one hand. 

Swiftly the boy appraised the 
stranger. He was a long, lean man, 
neither young nor old, in a Norfolk 
suit and motor cap, with goggles 
pushed up over the visor. There 
was rather a grim set about his 
mouth and jaw, but the keen gray 

eyes were smiling. The way the 
[2] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

new-comer had caught that ball 
proved him one of the elect, with 
whom a fellow can discuss the im- 
portant issues of life sympathetic- 
ally. 

“Whew!” said the boy, wiping his 
forehead with the back of his hand. 
“I broke the record, anyway — hun- 
dred’n’two — now it’s a hundred’n’- 
five.” 

“Fine business. Who taught you 
to swing a racquet like that?” 

“Nobody much. Daddy was goin’ 
to teach me — but he didn’t.” 

“How old are you?” pursued the 
stranger. 

“Almost ’leven.” 

“Your father plays tennis?” 

“He used to — till last summer,” 
ruminated the boy; “then he got 
creditors.” 


[3] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


The stranger looked puzzled. 
“How do you mean?” he asked. 

“Got creditors,” explained the boy. 
“I heard him an’ Mother talkin’ 
about it lots of times. Gee ! It must 
be fierce to get creditors. Daddy 
got ’em something awful — more’n a 
year ago. After that he most lived 
at the factory. Never played tennis 
or nothin’ — jus’ worked all the time. 
An’ las’ winter he used to tell Mother 
he was goin’ to pull through some- 
how. But I guess it’s gettin’ worse’n 
ever now, ’cause jus’ before we lef’ 
Boston an’ come up here I heard him 
say this summer would prob’ly see 
him bankruptured.” 

“Too bad,” said the stranger. 

“Yes,” said the boy simply. “This 
is Dad’s old racquet,” he added ir- 
relevantly. 


[4] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

The stranger took the racquet, a 
queer light in his eyes. He gripped 
it, tested its balance, and swung it 
this way and that in big sweeping 
strokes. 

“I bet you can play some,” ven- 
tured the boy, admiringly. 

“Used to,” grunted the stranger. 
“Good old bat, this. But too 
big and heavy for you. Ought 
to have a light one with a small 
handle.” 

“I know it,” said the boy. “But 
we can’t afford it, Mother says. It’s 
all we can do, now Dad has the 
creditors, to make meat at both ends, 
she says. That’s why we come to 
this old place, ’stead of a big hotel 
like we used to. Gee! It’s tough, 
ain’t it?” 

“Let’s see you bat ’em some more,” 
[ 5 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

suggested the stranger. The boy 
noticed his new friend limped as he 
walked. 

“Bam! — pop — Ping! . . . Bam! — 
pop — Ping!” went the ball against 
barn, ground and racquet while the 
stranger stood watching the boy’s 
play. 

“Best natural stroke I ever saw in 
a kid,” he muttered. 

The boy missed a fair try at a 
back-hand shot. 

“You don’t take those back-hand- 
ers right,” said the man. “Here, let 
me show you!” 

The stranger took the racquet, 
turned his right side to the wall and 
with full, graceful strokes drove the 
ball again and again in straight, 
whizzing flight against the barn. 

“Oh, sufferin’ Mike!” exclaimed 
[ 6 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

the boy. “Can I learn to do it like 
that?” 

“Sure. Practice, that’s all. No; 
stand sideways, right foot out — 
right foot — well out — farther. That’s 
it. Now start the swing from above 
the left shoulder — that’s the stuff. 
Let the racquet go right on through. 
No — too close to the body that time. 
Bounce the ball a little farther away. 
That’s the idea — follow through — 
that’a boy — that’a boy! Try it 
again.” 

The stranger sat down on a wheel- 
barrow and urged the boy on with 
crisp phrases of criticism and en- 
couragement. There was a new glint 
in the man’s eyes, and the grim set 
about his mouth and jaw had re- 
laxed. At times he almost laughed. 

“Rest a minute,” he called at 
[ 7 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


last; and the boy, his smooth round 
face shining with exertion and hap- 
piness, dropped beside him on the 
old barrow. 

“Whew!” breathed the pupil; “I 
bet you play a dandy game.” 

“Not any more,” said the stranger, 
the old grim look returning. 

“Before you — hurt your foot,” 
ventured the boy, hesitantly. 

“Yes,” grunted the stranger. “It’s 
all over, now.” 

“Won’t your foot ever get well, 
so you can play?” 

“No,” said the man bitterly. 
“Ankle’s busted. Never be much 
good. Mustn’t run around on it too 
much.” After a long silence he sud- 
denly rose. 

“Well — I must be going on,” he 
said. 


[ 8 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


“Are you stoppin’ down t’ the 
Intervale House?” asked the boy. 

“No; I’m just touring around 
through the mountains — not stop- 
ping anywhere except to sleep and 
eat. Well — so long, son.” 

But he didn’t go. He stood as 
though fascinated by the little down- 
cast figure on the wheelbarrow. The 
boy had suddenly lost his vivacity. 
He looked forlorn — and lonely. 

“What’s the trouble, son?” the 
man asked at length. 

“Nothin’, I guess,” said the boy, 
coming out of his reverie. “I was 
just iffin’, that’s all.” 

“What’s iffing?” 

“Don’t you never if? Why it’s 
like wishin’, only you put ‘if’ before 
everythin’. Like this — I was just 

iffin’ if you was livin’ down to the 
[9] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

Intervale House — an’ if you wanted 
to — you could come over an’ play 
with me lots of times — an’ teach me 
about tennis — an’ if you did I could 
become a good player — if you wasn’t 
goin’ away.” 

“Oh, I see,” mused the stranger. 
“But it’s this way, son: Since I 
broke my ankle and couldn’t play 
tennis any more, I’ve been driving 
around the country trying to forget 
my troubles. Tennis is one of the 
things I was trying to get away from 
— altogether. You see it’s pretty 
hard on a fellow not to be able to 
play any more — and — and — Under- 
stand?” 

“I guess so,” said the boy slowly. 

The stranger studied the ground 
for a moment. 

“I might stop over here a few days 
[ 10 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

— if you think they’d let me have 
a room,” he said finally. 

The boy jumped up with a shout. 
“Gee! Could you? That’d be swell! 
Sure, you can get a room. Mrs. 
Fletcher — she’s the landlady — she’ll 
do anythin’ for a friend o’ mine. 
Come on — I’ll interdooce you.” 


[ill 


CHAPTER II 


“Say, Bill,” said Mr. Kendrick, 
three days later, — he was no longer 
the stranger, — as they sat resting on 
the barrow between bombardments 
of the barn wall, “this old tennis 
court wouldn’t take long to put in 
some kind of shape.” 

“Wouldn’t it?” The boy’s sensi- 
tive face lighted with expectancy. 

“You and I could fix it up in a few 
days, if Old Man Fletcher would get 
us a couple of wagonloads of fine 
sand.” 

“Gee! Could we?” 

“Sure. This back-stop practice is 
all right as a starter; but you’ll 
never learn to play tennis this way,” 

pursued Kendrick. “Suppose I stay 
[ 12 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

on a while — send down to Boston for 
some tennis things, and make this 
court over with you — would you 
work hard and learn the game?” 

“Would I?” almost shouted the 
boy. “Ask me!” 

The man seemed to consider a mo- 
ment. 

“All right,” he said. “You’re on.” 

Whooping with delight, Billy 
dashed off to tell his mother, while 
Kendrick limped over the lumpy, 
grass-grown old court, testing the 
soil with his heel. The years seemed 
to have slipped from his shoulders. 
His face was almost as boyish as 
Billy’s when he lifted it to greet the 
quiet, patient figure being dragged 
toward him by the exuberant boy. 

“Billy tells me you are going to 
stay over a while,” she said, with the 

[ 13 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


quick, warm smile he had noted in 
both their faces so often. 

“If you don’t mind.” 

“Mind? Of course not. It’s aw- 
fully good of you to take such an 
interest in my lonely little boy.” 

“Not at all; a pleasure! Er — er. 
Bill, run over and ask Mr. Fletcher — 
there he is in the barn — if he can get 
us the sand,” said Kendrick. “He’s 
got the stuff in him to make a fine 
tennis player,” he added as Bill 
scampered off. 

“I hope he has the stuff in him 
to make a fine man,” said Billy’s 
mother. 

“It takes the same quality of 
goods, as a rule,” said Kendrick. 

“You think so?” she asked, dubi- 
ously. 

“I know so. Tennis develops a fel- 

[ 14 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

low’s self-control, courage and sense 
of decency, and, more than anything 
else, it teaches him to be a modest 
winner and a good loser.” 

“A good loser?” repeated Billy’s 
mother, questioningly. 

“How to lose gracefully — in life or 
just in the game.” 

“I’m afraid you overestimate the 
value of any mere sport,” she 
doubted. 

“Maybe I’ll have a chance to prove 
it to you with Billy,” said Kendrick. 

For three long days the lame 
young man and the boy tilled the soil 
of the old tennis court. Side by side 
they spaded, plowed, harrowed, and 
raked the surface. They spread the 
wagonloads of sand, and with the 
heavy stone road-roller they found 
in the barn they went over and over 

[ 15 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


the plot, rejoicing as they felt the 
ground grow firmer and firmer to 
their feet. 

Meanwhile, in response to various 
telegrams and letters, mysterious 
parcels and boxes arrived and were 
deposited unopened in the barn. At 
each end of the court, with the aid 
of Old Man Fletcher and the “hired 
man,” the back-stops were erected; 
on each side the net posts were sunk 
well into the ground. 

“Now we’ll see what’s in those 
packages,” said Kendrick at last. 

Billy was trembling with excite- 
ment and Kendrick was almost as 
eager as they ripped the covers from 
the boxes and tore the wrappings 
from the packages. Wonders were 
unfolded: A new white net with pat- 
ent stretchers to lower or raise it by 
[ 16 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


turning an iron crank; a gorgeously 
painted tin contrivance on wheels to 
mark the lines with lime-mixture; a 
couple of boxes of snowy-white, 
woolly “Championship” balls, and 
then — oh, frabjous day! — a twelve- 
and-a-half-ounce “Gold Medal” rac- 
quet in a waterproof cover and 
wooden press. The strings of white 
and black gut hummed to the boy’s 
strumming fingers; the handle felt 
slim and firm in his small, hard 
grip. 

In his joy Billy failed to notice the 
expression on Kendrick’s face as he 
bent over a battered leather racquet 
case. He looked like a violin virtuoso 
who had been kept away from his 
beloved instrument a long time. 

“Feels more like it, eh?” said Ken- 
drick, looking up at the boy, who 

[ 17 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


swung the racquet to and fro in 
ecstatic abandon. 

“Am — am — I goin’ to play with 
this one?” asked Billy breathlessly. 

“That’s what I got it for, kid. It’s 
yours for keeps.” 

“Gee! S’pose Mother won’t let me 
keep it.” There was sudden con- 
sternation in his tone. 

“Sure she will. When’s your birth- 
day?” 

“Next month — sixteenth,” gasped 
Billy, his face lighting. 

“That’s the idea,” laughed Ken- 
drick. “It’s your birthday present in 
advance.” 

The next day Kendrick began to 
teach Billy the intricacies of lawn 
tennis as an art. “We’ve got to go 
slowly at first,” he told him. 

“You’ve already managed, Lord 
[ 18 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


knows how, to learn to swing at the 
ball. The first thing I’m going to 
teach you is a simple service, with 
some ‘top’ and spin on the ball. 
Speed will come later, when you 
grow older and get more strength.” 

And so for hours at a time he kept 
the boy hammering out overhead 
service strokes, while he stood in the 
other court, collecting the balls and 
making no effort to return them. 
Then came days spent in mastering 
the rudiments of the long, low drives 
down the side-lines. 

“Until you are old enough to put 
speed on the ball, you must depend on 
your accuracy in placing to win your 
points,” he explained. “Half the 
game is out-guessing the other fellow, 
catching him out of position, and 


[ 19 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


slipping one down the court where he 
can’t reach it.” 

He taught Billy the short, tricky 
chopstroke across the court close to 
the net; how and when to play the 
dangerous but effective lob; and kept 
him plugging for many hours on long 
back-hand drives and difficult back- 
hand half-volleys. 


[ 20 ] 


CHAPTER III 


The days slipped into weeks and 
the weeks into a full month before 
Kendrick responded to the boy’s 
often repeated question: 

“Aren’t we ever going to play a 
real game?” 

Then, one morning at breakfast, he 
brought the boy to his feet in de- 
lighted surprise by saying: 

“I guess we’ll play a regular game 
today, Billy.” 

It certainly seemed a regular game 
to the boy, though Kendrick, as he 
hobbled slowly about the court, ap- 
peared to find no difficulty in antici- 
pating the youngster’s returns. The 
master, holding his power in constant 

reserve, maneuvered his shots so as to 
[21] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

bring into play every variety of stroke 
he had so laboriously drilled into the 
ardent little pupil across the net. 

“That’s the stuff, Bill,” he would 
shout encouragingly. “You picked 
the right spot that time. Try it 
again.” 

Slowly as the days passed the boy 
grew surer of his stroke, more ac- 
curate in his placement, until before 
the middle of August he could keep 
Kendrick limping from one side of 
the court to the other as fast as his 
crippled ankle would permit. 

“I beat him two sets this mornin’,” 
Kendrick heard Billy telling his 
mother one noon as they were wash- 
ing up for dinner. 

“I’m sure he must have let you 
win,” suggested the mother’s sweet 
voice. 

[ 22 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

“No, Ma, honest he didn’t. You 
see, he’s so lame that he can’t run 
fast, an’ when I place ’em down the 
side-lines I get him out o’ position an’ 
pass him, really I do.” 

Kendrick, drying his face on a 
towel, smiled grimly to himself. 

“Billy seems to be coming on as a 
player,” said the mother at dinner. 
“How’s the character-building work- 
ing out?” She smiled, teasingly. 

“I’m going to give him his first 
lesson in that after dinner,” said 
Kendrick, looking seriously at the 
astonished boy. 

They finished the meal in silence. 
After the hour’s rest Kendrick al- 
ways ordered for the digestion’s sake, 
he beckoned to the boy and silently 
led the way to the court. 

“Say, Bill,” he said finally, as they 

[23] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


took their places, “one of the worst 
things a young player can do is to get 
the swelled head and think he can 
beat the world. Understand?” 

“Yes — sir,” said Billy meekly. 

“I hope you do,” continued Ken- 
drick, picking up three balls deftly 
with one flick of his racquet; “but 
to make sure, I’m going to give 
you an object lesson. Ready — 
play!” 

What followed was a revelation to 
the bewildered Billy. He suddenly 
found himself tied to the ground 
waving a vain and useless toy in the 
air. Tennis balls lost their accus- 
tomed proportions and became mere 
white streaks that whizzed by one’s 
head like great angry hornets or 
struck viciously in all parts of the 
court where one wasn’t. Point upon 

[ 24 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

point, love-game after love-game, 
Kendrick, hardly appearing to move 
from one spot, piled up the score, 
until, with a final lightning drive 
down the side-lines that missed 
Billy’s frantic swipe by three feet, 
he ended the object lesson at 6-0. 

Kendrick stood quietly in his court 
and watched Billy’s rueful, crimson 
countenance. The boy wavered for a 
moment, and looked toward the 
house. He felt a big lump rising in 
his throat and his eyes became misty. 
He wanted to run to his mother — 
to bury his face in her lap — and be 
comforted, as of old. But he didn’t. 
Slowly he turned his twitching face 
toward the silent man across the net. 
Then with a quick gesture he drew 
his sleeve across his eyes and dripping 
forehead. “I — guess — I — was gettin’ 

[ 25 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


— stuck on — m-myself,” he blurted 
uncertainly. 

Kendrick’s heart leaped and his 
own eyes became strangely dim. 
With a great laugh he climbed over 
the net, grabbed the boy around the 
shoulders and hugged him. 

“You’re all right, kid!” he cried. 
“Don’t let that worry you for a 
minute. I could do that trick with 
lots of fullgrown men who think they 
can play tennis. I just wanted to 
take you down a little. Now we’ll go 
back to the regular stuff and give 
you some real practice.” 

Billy pulled himself together. He 
liked to feel his big friend’s arm 
around him — but it seemed to weaken 
his resolve not to cry, and so he drew 
himself slowly away. “What — what 


[26] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

shall I try next?” he asked, a little 
quavering. 

“That’s the boy!” said Kendrick. 
“Come on and try that reverse-twist 
service a while. If you get that down 
this summer you’ll have all the kids 
your age whipped to a standstill.” 

That evening, Billy, before the 
good-night hug and kiss he had never 
known his mother to overlook, made 
a little confession. 

“Mother,” he whispered, “I guess 
— you was right — when you said he 
let me win. I had the swelled head, 
all right. But he took it out of me 
this afternoon. Gee! You ought to 
see him hit that ball when he wants 
to.” 

Billy’s mother looked tenderly at 
the tired, healthy little figure in the 
big feather bed. There was a special 

[ 27 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


fervor in the good-night hug and kiss 
that time, and then she went down to 
the porch and told Kendrick about it. 

“I’m beginning to see that tennis 
isn’t all mere play,” she said. 


[ 28 ] 


CHAPTER IV 


One other lesson, and a more seri- 
ous one, Kendrick found necessary 
to instill into his pupil. He had no- 
ticed a growing tendency on Billy’s 
part to miscall balls. At first Ken- 
drick attributed it to lack of experi- 
ence. But this day there could be no 
mistake: three times in one set Billy 
deliberately called one of Kendrick’s 
artfully placed returns “outside,” 
when Kendrick could see plainly that 
it struck just inside, or dead on the 
line. 

After the third offense Kendrick 
smashed one down the side for the 
winning point and turned on his heel 
to leave the court. 

[ 29 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


“We won’t play any more to-day, 
Billy,” he said quietly. 

Without looking back Kendrick 
limped around the house, leaving the 
boy, racquet in hand, moodily boun- 
cing a ball up and down. Kendrick 
immersed himself in a book on the 
veranda and awaited developments. 
Slowly, with dragging footsteps, a 
forlorn little figure in khaki blouse 
and knickers came around the house 
and mounted the veranda steps. 

Kendrick fastened his eyes on the 
page before him, reading the same 
paragraph over and over. The foot- 
steps dragged nearer and nearer. 
Kendrick felt the pressure of a small 
shoulder leaning against his; a little 
brown hand pulled at his coat sleeve. 
Presently a weak, uncertain voice 
spoke in his ear: 

[301 






































































































































The Great Moment in the Great Game When the 







































































































































* 






* 













THE GOOD LOSER 

“I — knew — those balls — was — was 
good.” 

The next instant Kendrick found 
himself holding a quivering figure, 
while a small round head buried itself 
on his arm and spilled big tears on his 
hand. For a while Kendrick silently 
held the shaken boy in his arms. 
When he started to speak he found it 
difficult. 

“Billy,” he said at last, “I don’t 
think I’ll ever have to tell you this 
again: Tennis puts a fellow on his 
honor more than any other game — 
when there’s no umpire or linesmen 
to watch the balls hit. It’s good to 
play winning tennis, but the next 
best thing to winning a square game 
is to lose one. The worst thing is to 
win by cheating, or taking a mean 

advantage of the other fellow. Al- 
[ 31 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


ways remember that. Anytime in a 
game that you are in doubt as to 
whether the ball is in or out, give 
the benefit of the doubt to the other 
side of the net. Understand?” 

From the huddled figure in his 
arms came an inarticulate affirma- 
tive noise. 

“You’ll have lots of chances in 
tennis to do the crooked thing — when 
your opponent isn’t expecting it and 
you can win a point by cheating. But 
you’ll find it doesn’t pay. Real tennis 
players don’t do it. They’re a clean 
lot of fellows. They haven’t any use 
for a chap who cheats. Why — some- 
times — it even happens in a big 
match that the umpire or linesman 
wilbcall a ball ‘out’ or ‘in’ and give 
you a point when you know he’s 
wrong. If you’re a regular guy you 

[ 32 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

won’t stand for such a play, you’ll 
see that the point goes to your oppo- 
nent — or even it up on the next point, 
anyway. Understand?” 

There came another mumbled as- 
sent. Followed minutes of silence, 
broken only by those gulps and retch- 
ings of the painful aftermath of tears. 
Neither heard the screen door shut 
softly and the quick rustle of foot- 
steps scurrying up-stairs. Up in her 
room Billy’s mother found it diffi- 
cult to keep back the tears and 
swallow the rising lump in her 
throat. 

The days drew on toward the end 
of summer. Billy, under Kendrick’s 
watchful coaching, daily grew on 
better terms with his little racquet 
and the big white ball. Sometimes 
Kendrick asked how Billy’s father 

[ 33 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

was making out with his business 
troubles. 

Bit by bit he learned of the cease- 
less fight against bankruptcy for two 
years; the crash this summer; the 
bitter weeks of gathering up the 
pieces. 

“He writes that there may be 
enough left to live on for a year,” 
Billy’s mother told Kendrick one 
evening late in August; “but his 
spirit seems to be broken.” 

“Why don’t you make him come 
up here for a little rest?” 

“I have tried,” she said; “but he 
can’t — not yet. He might come 
later — he says.” 

“He’ll pull through,” comforted 
Kendrick. “He’s made a great fight 
— a man like that doesn’t he down 
long after he’s beaten.” 

[ 34 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

A day or two later Kendrick came 
back from one of the reckless spins in 
his little roadster he took occasionally 
by way of “working a grouch out 
of my system,” he often said. He 
had a great surprise for Billy. He 
brought it out at the supper table. 

“How’d you like to play in a boys’ 
tournament at the Crawford House 
this week?” he asked. 

Billy almost choked on a slab of 
hot, buttered blueberry cake. 

“Oh! Gee! Can I?” 

“If your mother doesn’t mind. . . . 
They’re getting ready for the White 
Mountain championship tournament, 
beginning next Saturday,” said Ken- 
drick, turning to her; “they’re start- 
off with a junior event for boys of 
sixteen and under. I think Billy’s 
got a good chance to win.” 

[ 35 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


Billy gulped and bolted his cake. 

“Oh, Ma/” he exclaimed. 

“Why, if you think it’s all right,” 
said Billy’s mother. 

“Great thing for him,” said Ken- 
drick. 

For two more days Kendrick 
worked Billy like a slave on the court 
back of the barn. The third day he 
ordered a complete rest. 

“You’re as good as I can make 
you in the time we’ve had,” he 
said; “a day’s rest will put you on 
edge.” 

The next morning they drove over 
to the Notch, and returned in tri- 
umph. Billy had licked his first oppo- 
nent without extending himself. But 
Billy’s mother wasn’t interested. 
There had come another letter, a 
pitifully thin one this time, and 

[ 36 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

Billy’s mother’s eyes were redder 
than ever. That evening Kendrick 
gently drew from her that it was all 
over. There wasn’t anything left 
but debts, and Billy’s father had 
accepted a salaried position in an- 
other factory — to start work after 
Labor Day. 

“There’s no reason why he 
shouldn’t run up here for a few days,” 
urged Kendrick. “Wire him in the 
morning to come right up. It will 
do him all kinds of good to get his 
mind off his troubles — he’s played 
tennis, and when he sees Billy in 
action it’ll give him a new lease on 
life.” 

“I wonder,” said Billy’s mother. 
But she sent a telegram. 

The next day Billy won his second- 
round match from a lively youngster 

[ 37 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


of fifteen, taking straight sets, 6-3 — 
6-2. When they got home Billy’s 
mother met them with a smile. 
Billy senior was coming up next 
day. 

The third evening Billy and Ken- 
drick returned from the Notch like 
conquerors, to find Billy senior and 
Billy’s mother waiting for them on 
the porch. Billy’s father looked 
stooped and white and worn, but 
he took Billy in his arms with a dis- 
play of feeling that warmed Kendrick 
toward him, and the two men clasped 
hands firmly. 

“Oh, Dad!” cried Billy, “you’re 
just in time to see me play in the 
finals tomorrow. I won two matches 
today. The feller I had in the third 
round was a cinch, but I beat a big 
boy in the semi-finals — didn’t I, 

[ 38 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

Mr. Kendrick? — though I thought he 
had me licked once; but I worked the 
chop stroke on him, an’ pulled out the 
set an’ match, didn’t I?” 

“Of course all three of you will go 
over tomorrow,” said Kendrick. 
“There’s plenty of room in old Lizzie, 
if she is just a roadster.” 

“We’ll see about it,” said Billy’s 
father as they went in to supper. 

That night the two men sat on the 
porch and smoked their pipes and 
talked, while Billy lay curled up in 
contented slumber and Billy’s mother 
sat beside his bed and thought of 
many things. 

“Can that kid really play tennis?” 
asked Billy’s father. 

“Can he? Just wait until you see 
him tomorrow. He’s a wonder for 
his age and size.” 

[ 39 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


“I’m not sure I’ll go over; don’t 
feel much like tennis. You know why, 
I guess. My wife told me you knew 
something of our — our difficulties.” 

“The worst is over, isn’t it?” asked 
Kendrick. “You know how you 
stand now. You’re through the 
suspense and all that, and you’re 
going to start all over again. You 
can make good, I know that.” 

“It’s kind of you to say that, Ken- 
drick,” said Billy’s father. “But it’s 
hell to have everything you’ve owned 
snatched away from you and have to 
start in — at a salary — at my time of 
life.” 

“Of course it’s hell,” assented Ken- 
drick. “But you’re going to do it. 
So now’s the time to get a grip on 
yourself and pull that old grin-and- 
bear-it stuff.” 


[ 40 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

There was a long pause, while 
their pipes purred and bubbled sooth- 

ingly- 

“Guess I’ll go over with you,” 
said Billy’s father. 

“Sure,” grunted Kendrick. 


[ 41 ] 


CHAPTER V 


Kendrick, Billy, and Billy’s pa- 
rents found camp stools on the lawn 
at the edge of the court, facing the 
crowded hotel veranda. Billy, in his 
worn little “sneakers” and khaki 
blouse and knickers, was as un- 
perturbed as any veteran. Billy’s 
father looked over the crowd, glanced 
at the neat freshly-marked court, and 
then looked at Billy. The desperate, 
haunted gleam in his eyes softened, 
his features relaxed. 

A committeeman with a big badge 
and a megaphone announced cavern- 
ously that, as a special favor, Mr. 
James Kennedy, secretary of the 
Eastern Tennis Association, had vol- 
unteered to umpire the final match 

[ 42 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

in the White Mountain Junior Cham- 
pionship. Then followed the names 
of the contestants and the order to 
proceed with the game. A big, 
genial-looking man climbed upon the 
umpire’s ladder amid a ripple of 
applause. 

“Good old Jim,” muttered Ken- 
drick. 

“Contestants ready?” called Ken- 
nedy. 

A bulky youth nearly two heads 
taller than Billy advanced across the 
court from the hotel. He carried two 
racquets and wore long white flannel 
trousers, a sport shirt, and a Turkish 
towel across his shoulders. 

“Now, Billy,” said Kendrick 
tensely, “walk right up to the net, 
stretch out your hand and make him 
shake it. Then come back here.” 

[ 43 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


“Great guns!” muttered Billy se- 
nior. “Is that the boy Billy’s to play, 
or his father?” 

“You wait,” said Kendrick. 

Out marched little Billy, straight 
to the net, and reached out his hand. 
His big opponent looked abashed, 
but shook hands limply and grinned. 
The gallery caught the spirit of the 
thing and a wave of laughter and 
applause encircled the tennis court. 
Billy came back to Kendrick. 

“Now go right after him,” said the 
coach; “don’t worry about his size 
and speed. Keep placing them on 
him. Get me?” 

“Yep,” said Bill. “I gotcha.” 

Umpire Kennedy tossed out three 
brand-new balls to the Andover lad, 
and Billy set himself to receive. 

“That big boob will walk away 


THE GOOD LOSER 

with Billy if he’s any good,” said 
Billy’s father. 

“You’ve got three more guesses,” 
said Kendrick. 

In the first minutes of play little 
Billy brought the gallery to its toes. 
The general expectation had been 
that the bigger boy would make a 
runaway affair of it. That ex- 
pectation lasted only until they saw 
Billy drive three of the Andover 
boy’s hard service balls straight 
down the side-lines for clean passes 
and points. 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Billy’s 
father, sitting up in his chair. 

Billy took the first three games 
without batting an eyelash. The 
Andover lad braced, and by a smash- 
ing service won the fourth game 
handily. Billy came back in the next, 

[ 45 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


and won with a beautifully placed 
reverse-twist service. 

“Did you teach him that?” asked 
Billy’s father of Kendrick. 

“Ugh!” grunted Kendrick. “Watch 
the game.” 

The Andover boy again won his 
own service and then broke through 
Billy’s for his third game. With the 
score 4-3 in Billy’s favor, the little 
wizard pulled out a deuce game on 
his opponent’s serve and then took 
game and set on his own after a hard 
battle at the net. 

By this time Billy’s father was 
beating Kendrick black and blue 
about the shoulders. Kendrick didn’t 
seem to mind. 

The Andover lad got going in the 
second set and began rushing the net. 
He smothered his small opponent 

[ 46 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

with hard drives, and took game after 
game. It was a desperate spurt and 
the pace was telling on the big boy 
when he pulled the final game of the 
set out at 6-2. Billy, while over- 
whelmed by the Andover boy’s speed, 
was as fresh as ever when the third 
and final set began. 

The Andover boy had lost some of 
his snap and the game became a nip 
and tuck struggle. Both lads played 
tennis that brought round upon 
round of applause. Each won his 
own service, until the games stood 
Five-All. Then Billy, playing his 
tricky little chop stroke for all he was 
worth, broke through his opponent’s 
service and made it 6-5 in his 
favor. 

Kendrick, his hands ground down 

into his coat pockets, his eyes glitter- 
147 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


ing and sweat standing out on his 
forehead in great beads, was watch- 
ing that little figure in khaki calmly 
setting itself to deliver a service. 

“Steady — steady — Billy-boy,” 
croaked Kendrick, half aloud. “Make 
those first ones good — ’ At’a’boy ! ’At’- 
a’boy!” 

“Oh, dear! He must win,” mur- 
mured Billy’s mother, twisting a but- 
ton off Billy’s father’s coat sleeve. 

Stroke by stroke the game grew 
until it stood 40-30 in Billy’s favor. 
One more point and the match was 
his. In the silence of that minute 
one could hear Billy draw a deep 
breath as he swatted out what might 
be his last service stroke. 

The Andover lad returned the ball 
swiftly down Billy’s right-hand court. 
Billy chopped it back, slantwise 

[ 48 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

across the net. But his opponent 
had guessed the stroke and was there 
to meet the ball. Even before the 
Andover lad returned it Billy spun 
about and dashed for the other side 
of his court. 

The ball struck close to the alley 
directly in front of Kendrick and 
Billy’s parents. Billy tried a des- 
perate back-hand drive, but only 
succeeded in netting the ball. The 
point was gone — it would be deuce 
now. The golden opportunity to win 
the match in one stroke had passed. 
But no. Even as Billy swung wildly 
at that deep return Umpire Ken- 
nedy’s big voice came booming across 
the court. 

4 4 Outside — Game — Set — match /” 

The gallery burst into prolonged 
applause. 


[49] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


“That ball wasn’t out,” cried 
Billy’s father hoarsely. 

“No, it was dead on the line,” said 
Kendrick. “And Billy knows it — 
look at him.” 

“But the umpire called it out — and 
Billy’s won the match,” exclaimed 
Billy’s mother. 

“Watch Billy!” hissed Kendrick. 


[ 50 ] 


CHAPTER VI 


It was obvious to all that the little 
figure in the center of the court was 
trying to make itself heard. The gal- 
lery grew immediately silent. 

“Mr. Umpire,” came Billy’s voice, 
pipingly in that big space, “that ball 
was good — I saw it hit the line.” 

The silence was tense. Then Ken- 
nedy spoke, in a big kindly voice: 

“Are you sure, young man?” 

“Sure,” said Billy, stepping to the 
line and pointing with his racquet, 
“there’s the spot it hit.” 

“I thought it was in all the time,” 
said Billy’s opponent ungraciously, 
from across the net. 

“All right,” boomed the umpire. 

“my mistake. Resume play, please. 

[ 51 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


The score is — Deuce — the games, 6-5 
— third set.” 

Then the big gallery realized what 
Billy’s display of sportsmanship had 
cost him, and while only meaning to 
show appreciation prolonged its 
cheers and applause to the point of 
upsetting the little fellow’s nerve 
entirely. He stood restlessly back 
of his base line, waiting for the 
noise to subside before resuming his 
service. 

Billy’s father looked at Kendrick in 
delighted amazement. 

“Why — the little — cuss!” he ex- 
claimed at length. 

But Billy’s mother looked at Ken- 
drick with shining, wet eyes. 

“You taught him to do that — I 
heard you — one day on the veranda,” 
she stammered. 


[ 52 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

Kendrick was grinning from ear to 
ear. 

“The stuff was there,” he said, with 
a note of triumph in his voice. “It 
only needed tennis to bring it out.” 

None of the three seemed to care a 
particle when poor Billy, rattled be- 
yond control, lost his service game, 
got swamped in the next, and then 
again lost his service, and the match. 
He found himself smothered in the 
arms of his parents and thumped by 
Kendrick just as though he’d actually 
won the cup. 

A big man pushed his way through 
the crowd and slapped Kendrick be- 
tween the shoulders. 

“Phil Kendrick — you old rascal!” 
he roared. 

“Hello, Jim! — glad to see you.” 

And then Kendrick introduced the 
[ 53 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


big umpire to Billy’s parents, and the 
defeated finalist himself. 

“Say, youngster, the committee 
wants to see you. Take him over, 
Phil; they’ve got a surprise for him. 
Phil, you old hermit, — I thought I 
recognized that reverse-twist service 
the minute that kid began it, — what 
do you mean by keeping away from 
all your old pals this summer? We’ve 
wanted you at all the big events, but 
couldn’t get a line on you anywhere. 
And the ankle? Any better? Too bad 
— worst blow to American tennis we 
ever had — had you slated for the 
Davis Cup team sure.” 

“Don’t rub it in, Jim,” said Ken- 
drick laughingly. “Come on, Bill, 
let’s see what the committee wants.” 

“Great Jupiter!” said Billy’s father 
to Kennedy. “Is that Phil Kendrick, 

[ 54 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

the old Eastern Champion who had 
to default in the finals for the 
National last spring?” 

“Sure,” answered Kennedy in sur- 
prise; “didn’t you know?” 

“Why — er — no, only met him a 
few days ago. He’s been training 
my boy all summer — but I just got 
up here — Well, I’ll be darned!” 

“How did he break his ankle?” 
asked Billy’s mother. 

“Didn’t you hear that, either?” ex- 
claimed Kennedy. “Toughest bit 
of luck in the world. It was in the 
National finals at San Francisco this 
spring. Phil was playin’ McCoughlin. 
Been after that title for fifteen years 
and was within one point of gettin’ 
it. It was set and match point, 8-7 
in Phil’s favor; Mac was serving, and 
the score was 30-40. Just like my 

[ 55 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 


mistake today — the linesman called 
one of Mac’s returns ‘out’ and gave 
Phil the point, game, set and cham- 
pionship. But Phil knew the ball was 
right, and wouldn’t take the point. 
Mac wouldn’t take it either, so they 
agreed to play it over. On the very 
next play Phil slipped and busted his 
ankle. Mac won by default, of course 
— and Phil’s out of the big game for 
good.” 

“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” 
said Billy’s mother. 

“He’s a white man, all right,” said 
Billy’s father. 

“White?” bellowed Kennedy. 
“He’s the best sport in the country, 
bar none — unless it’s that kid of 
yours. A good winner and a good 
loser — never uttered a whine when it 
happened. Took his medicine, and 

[ 56 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

just dropped out of the game for 
good without a peep.” 

Then came Kendrick and Billy, 
lugging a big silver cup. 

“The committee liked Billy’s sport- 
ing spirit so much they decided to give 
him a cup as runner-up,” explained 
the broken champion, grinning like a 
Chinese idol. “It’s a better cup than 
the winner got because it was meant 
for the runner-up of the big tourna- 
ment. But they’re going to get an- 
other one for that.” 

“Oh, Billy!” cried Billy’s mother, 
taking him in her arms, “I’m so proud 
of you!” 

“Me, too, Bill,” said Billy’s father. 

“Phil,” vociferated Kennedy, 
“you’ve got to come over here every 
day and umpire in the big tourna- 
ment, and next month down at Pine- 

157 ] 


THE GOOD LOSEH 

hurst — now don’t say you won’t. 
You’re too good a loser to let any dis- 
appointment keep you away from the 
game altogether, so I’ll expect you. 
So long, everybody; I must see the 
committee.” 

A silent, happy foursome piled into 
Phil’s little roadster and slipped back 
to the old Fletcher farm. Nothing 
important was said until just before 
Billy went up-stairs to bed. Then his 
father called to him from the veranda : 

“Say, kid, get plenty of sleep, be- 
cause tomorrow morning I’m going 
to take that old racquet of mine and 
show you up.” 

“That’ll be great, Daddy,” came 
Billy’s voice from the stairs. “I guess 
you can do it all right — I’m only 
learning, you know.” 

Billy’s father looked at Kendrick. 

[ 58 ] 


THE GOOD LOSER 

“No swelled head, either,” he com- 
mented. 

“Mr. Kendrick cured him,” put in 
Billy’s mother. 

“Nothin’ like being a good loser,” 
mused Kendrick. 

“I — think — you’re right,” said 
Billy’s father, reaching out his hand 
through the dusk. 

“Guess I’ll accept Kennedy’s in- 
vitation to umpire those matches,” 
said Kendrick, after a pause. 

“Billy’ll miss you,” said Billy’s 
mother. 

“You’ll come and see us sometimes, 
when we get settled in Boston?” 
asked Billy’s father. 

“Of course,” said Kendrick; ”I’m 
going to make Billy the national 
champion.” 


[59] 










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